


into Tinder, and so hinder

by caramelle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Friends to Lovers, because i'm a total sucker for oblivious!bellarke, the tinder au your mother warned you about, you KNOW clarke and lincoln would totally get along swimmingly if they had a chance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-17 05:58:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5856799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Yes, you should definitely always start every Tinder conversation with 'Hey, what underwear are you wearing?'"</p><p>The one where Clarke tries Tinder, Lincoln is awesome, and Bellamy is thoroughly annoyed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	into Tinder, and so hinder

**Author's Note:**

> look who's learning length control!
> 
> tbh i was in desperate need of some good ol' fashioned bellarke cheer after the heartache of 3x02. hope this makes you feel better, whether or not you've seen it. it certainly made me feel better.
> 
> (title from A Pretty Woman by Robert Browning, whom i firmly believe both bellamy and clarke would've been diehard fans of)

“I need help.”

 

Bellamy sets a drink down on the smooth bar-top, one dark brow raised. “Well, princess, admittance _is_ the first step to recovery. Want me to look up anger management therapists?”

 

A set of piercing blue eyes narrow at him as he squeezes an extra lime into her glass. “Does the sass _seriously_ work with the ladies?”

 

He deftly flips his dishtowel to lay over his shoulder with a smirk. “You tell me,” he says, glancing over at the brunette at the other end of the bar. She’s spent the last twenty minutes making eyes at him over her margarita, and he’d just been about to go talk to her when his sister’s best friend had showed up at the bar. Pity, too. It’s been a really slow night — he probably would’ve been able to get a number. Or laid.

 

Shit. It’s been a while, okay?

 

Clarke follows his gaze to the brunette, who’s now leaning her weight into her elbows as they rest on the bar in a blatant attempt to draw attention to her assets. She looks back at Bellamy, who’s watching the brunette with obvious interest, and rolls her eyes. “Ugh, I guess it does. You _are_ the obvious choice.”

 

Bellamy glances away from the brunette, distracted. “The what now?”

 

“I told you,” Clarke tells him calmly, between sips of her drink. “I need help.”

 

His brows knit together as he regards her. “I’m confused, princess. Are you interested in the nuanced art of bar flirting or something?”

 

She huffs, rather unceremoniously. “Please.” She starts rummaging in her bag. “Actually, I need help with Tinder.”

 

His jaw drops. He’s pretty sure the six other people in the bar have stopped talking all at once. He’s pretty sure a nuclear warhead is headed straight for the building and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop it and everyone should start screaming and running about in circles and pulling paper bags over their heads.

 

Clarke finds her phone and brings it up onto the bar, thumbing at it absently as he remains frozen in his momentary stupor.

 

“See,” she starts, gaze focused on the screen, “if they tell me there’s a match or something, that means we both swiped right on each other, right? But what if I swiped right with—”

 

“Hold up,” he finally regains his powers of speech, lifting a hand to cut her off. “You’re… on _Tinder_?”

 

She looks at him. “Yes.”

 

“As in, _dating app_ Tinder?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“To find people to _date_?!”

 

“Yes.”

 

He stares at her. “ _When_ exactly did this happen?”

 

She shrugs, taking another sip of her drink. “Couple days ago? Does it matter?”

 

He suddenly remembers his jaw is still hanging open, and abruptly pulls it shut.

 

She brushes a couple rogue strands out of her face impatiently. “Look, are you done? Octavia and Raven don’t use this shit, so they can’t help me, can they?”

 

“And you think I can?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest. It’s not meant to be confrontational; he genuinely wants to know. They’ve never exactly been into sharing with each other, especially not personal stuff. Insults, jibes, comebacks, retorts, lengthy heated debates — now that’s safe Bellamy-and-Clarke territory. Lately maybe even friendly teasing.

 

Not… _dating_.

 

She arches a brow at him. “The first week you were on Tinder, you were bragging for days after about that threesome.”

 

He pauses. “Ah, that—”

 

“You went out with three girls in four months, had numerous hook-ups and dates with at least eight others _and_ had flirty back-and-forth texting shit with two more on the side.”

 

He’s staring at her again. “Okay, how do you _know_ all that?”

 

She levels him with a look that's equal parts disbelief and pity. “You know who my best friend is, right?”

 

He shifts uncomfortably, making a mental note to reevaluate his level of sharing with his clearly unreliable sister. “Right. Uh, you do realise I don’t do that anymore though. Right?”

 

She waves a hand dismissively. “Doesn’t matter. Game is game, Blake. And you got game.” She glances briefly at the brunette still at the other end of the bar, nose wrinkling. “Tinder game, at least.”

 

He exhales slowly, unfolding his arms to brace his hands on the bar. Honestly, he’s still not quite able to believe the conversation he’s caught in the middle of. With the _princess_ , no less. “What exactly are you asking?”

 

“I need you to spot me.”

 

He frowns. He’s never thought about Clarke as someone who needs his help. Shit, she’s probably better at changing out a flat tyre than he is. “What, like _coach_ you? You want me to teach you how to talk to strangers online?”

 

Her nose wrinkles again, and he briefly wonders if she even knows she does that. “What? Ew, no. I don’t want threesomes and four one-night stands in a row, I have a _life_.”

 

He bristles a little, his frown deepening. “I told you, I don’t—” He breaks off mid-sentence as he catches her small smile, the sparkle in her blue eyes as they meet his.

 

She’s kidding.

 

A half-grin stretches across his face. “Cute, princess. Hope you remember that teasing tones aren’t so easily captured via text messages.”

 

She gives him a mocking little salute, the other hand still occupied with her phone. “In all seriousness, though, the interacting part isn’t actually what I was hoping to get your input with. It’s a problem of selection.”

 

“Say what?”

 

She gestures to her phone. “You’ve spent months and months on this thing. You have profile pic interpretation skills I could only dream of.”

 

He shakes his head. “I’m not sure how—”

 

She suddenly turns the phone towards him, abruptly demanding, “Yes or no?”

 

He glances at the photo. A cute redhead is displayed on her screen, body curving to the side with one hand on her hip.

 

“No.”

 

She looks at him alertly. “Why not? She’s pretty cute.”

 

He clears his throat and leans over the bar as Clarke angles the phone so they can both get a closer look. “Never swipe right on cleavage that’s basically just underwire. See? You can spot the bottom of her bra. That spells issues with a capital I. Also, _Imogen_? Unless her surname is Heap, that’s not going to end well. Plus, there’s about a seventy-five percent chance this girl got dressed and did full hair and makeup just for this photo.”

 

Clarke’s brows snap together. “There’s no way you’re picking that up just from this photo.”

 

He leans in, pointing to the corner of the photo. “That’s definitely a bedroom clock, and that definitely says ten forty-five P.M. Either she had a really bad night, in _that_ dress — or no night at all.”

 

They lean back at the same time, him raising a brow in challenge, her in slight awe. “Spooky,” she says, her husky tone flat as she draws out the two syllables deliberately — but she seems sufficiently impressed. “Do you read palms?”

 

“Only on Tuesdays.”

 

They spend the next hour or so going through more profiles. She ends up behind the empty bar while he’s closing the register, helping him put clean glasses away while they extensively debate the significance of setting a gym selfie as a profile picture.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Clarke groans, flopping back into the booth dramatically. “Is it always this much _work_ with you?”

 

He raises a dark brow at her, still cutting into his pancakes. “You told me to tell you what I think. I’m telling you what I think. I wouldn’t meet a guy wearing a Snapback in his profile pic face to face, especially not alone.”

 

Clarke springs up again, brows shooting up in incredulity. “Your problem is the _Snapback_?”

 

He scoffs. “My problem is how he’s _only_ wearing the Snapback. You don’t need anyone with an ego too big to fit into normal clothes.”

 

She rolls her eyes, picking up her fork to prod at her eggs. “Yeah, I already have you.”

 

The corner of his mouth pulls up. “Come on, princess, who’s next.”

 

They spend another thirty minutes in the booth with coffee refills and a large chocolate sundae that they end up splitting, because they really shouldn’t be eating ice cream before eleven in the morning, even if it’s the weekend, but it’s not technically counted if they share.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“You can’t possibly find anything wrong with _that_!”

 

Bellamy levels her with a flat stare. “He’s head to toe in Hollister, Clarke. _Head_. To _toe_.”

 

She jams her phone in her pocket to leave her hands free for the large, steaming bowl of pasta he passes her. “Well what other stores should I ban from my radar? Should I make sure every potential candidate only owns underwear from Victoria’s Secret or Calvin Klein or something?”

 

He picks up a second bowl and follows her out of the kitchen. “Yes, you should definitely always start every Tinder conversation with ‘Hey, what underwear are you wearing?’”

 

She throws a scowl at him over her shoulder. “Fuck you. I get to pick the movie.”

 

“Why you?!”

 

She drops down onto his couch and snags the remote before he can blink. “Because I’m less of a judgmental asshole.”

 

They end up on _Miss Congeniality_ , because Clarke loves it and she knows Bellamy not-so-secretly likes it too. She ignores his repeated requests to fast forward through the “boring talky scenes” and loudly sings along to Sandra Bullock’s “you want to huuuuug me” song. He hogs the apple pie they’d bought earlier for dessert, and echoes “she’s _beauty_ and she’s _grace!_ ” in a deep, booming voice every five minutes to make her jump.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

A couple weeks into their Bellamy-dubbed “consultancy”, Clarke finds Lincoln. She immediately shows his profile to Bellamy, who spends a full two minutes studying it closely.

 

“Well?” she asks, her expectant tone laced with detectable excitement. “He’s great, isn’t he?”

 

Bellamy tilts his head, pursing his lips. “I wouldn’t have gone for that colour shirt.”

 

Clarke rolls her eyes and swipes her phone out of his grasp. “I’m gonna take that as a _very_ begrudging ‘Yes, Clarke, he looks great, what a wonderfully discerning eye you’ve developed’,” she tells him, glancing up at him as her thumbs move across the screen. A few seconds later, she grins at her screen and looks up at him. “It’s a match! I’m gonna message him.”

 

Bellamy shifts on the couch, fiddling with the remote. “Making the first move, princess? That’s pretty bold for your first solid Tinder interaction, don’t you think?”

 

She snorts in amusement. He glances at her quickly, but her focus is directed at her phone screen. She laughs again, quiet and under her breath. He clears his throat when she doesn’t look up. “Care to share, princess?”

 

She blinks at him briefly before returning her attention to her phone. “It’s nothing, he made some stupid joke,” she says, smiling wide at the lit-up screen.

 

He suddenly realises he’s gritting his teeth. He taps the remote against his leg restlessly before turning the television volume up, trying to focus on that instead of Clarke’s audible chuckles and chortles.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“I assume this Lincoln guy isn’t an axe murderer, then?” Bellamy calls when he hears his door open, lifting his glasses to rub at his eyes.

 

“He most _certainly_ is not,” Clarke calls back. He hears the sound of his fridge being opened and heavily closed again while he’s saving his work. “But I haven’t ruled out ninja assassin yet. He’s definitely got the body for it.” She appears with two bottles of beer, dropping down onto the couch as she holds one out to him.

 

 _That’s great,_ Bellamy just manages to stop himself from biting out, quickly occupying his lips with the beer bottle instead and substituting his retort for a vague hum. “Already rounding second base on the first date, princess? I hope you’re not taking advantage of him,” he says, closing his laptop and setting it aside.

 

She snickers as she picks up the remote. “Oh, don’t worry. He’s safe from my advances. He does kickboxing _and_ muay thai, five times a week. Can you believe that?”

 

“Does he now,” he replies as neutrally as he can. For some reason, he’s finding himself to be more and more disappointed that Clarke ended up liking the guy. Not that it’s a bad thing — it’s kind of the whole point of her Tinder stint. But still.

 

“Yeah, plus regular strength training, 5K runs, the works,” she continues, absently scrolling through episodes of _New Girl_. They’d just finished catching up on season four the week before, and she’d made him swear on his thesis to wait for her to start season five. “He goes to this gym — well, actually, he _started_ the gym with his friend Nyko, and it’s more of a health centre thing than just a workout gym, but once they got twenty members they really wanted to expand, so they…”

 

He takes another swig of his beer as she goes on. Clarke being excited about a new guy isn’t a bad thing. Not at all.

 

He finishes the bottle within the minute and opens a second for himself in the next. Because he’s _thirsty_.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

If he has to hear the word “Lincoln” one more time, he’s going to fucking explode.

 

At first, Bellamy was gritting his teeth so much that his jaw started to ache. He tried to replace that bad habit with pressing his lips together tightly instead, but all he got from that were swollen lips _and_ an aching jaw.

 

He’s glad Clarke likes Lincoln. Really, he is. But if he has to hear about healthy, fit Lincoln and his health and fitness business and healthy and fit lifestyle one more fucking time… _Jesus_.

 

It’s not just that. It’s how _smart_ Lincoln is. How _witty_. How _driven_ and _caring_ he is, and how he’s hilarious but more Stephen Fry hilarious than Chris Rock, and, Oh my God! He’s _artsy_ too!

 

 _Je-sus_.

 

The worst part has to be how she keeps telling him “You’ve gotta meet him, Bellamy.” “I think you’re really going to like him, Bellamy.” “The other day he said blah blah blah, that’s basically what you said last week! You guys would totally get along.” All while smiling that fucking perfect smile of hers, the one he always looks out for when they’re going through Tinder profiles together, watching stupid movies and stealing each other’s food.

 

  

By the third week, he’s considering avoiding Clarke altogether. It would be a little awkward, but he’s pretty sure he could manage it. Anything’s got to be better than ending up stuck in another episode of _The Lincoln-Is-Awesome Show!_ , with your host, Clarke Griffin!

  

He resolves to say something the next time she walks into the bar after another date with Lincoln, but she appears in front of him the next night, all windswept blonde curls, flushed cheeks and that goddamn _smile_ that matches her bright blue eyes _perfectly_ , and he instantly blanks out.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It’s probably not her fault, but his sister is the last straw.

 

It’s the first time they’ve managed to meet up in a couple weeks — she’s been busy with finals and he’s been working more shifts at the bar to minimise the amount of time he spends with Clarke.

 

To be honest, he’s a little pissed. Not that Clarke’s spending so much time with Lincoln. Guy sounds great. Wonderful. Awesome.

 

He _is_ a little miffed that whenever they hang out, she doesn’t seem to want his opinion on more Tinder candidates. Why isn’t she bringing him more profiles for them to jointly appraise and criticise and argue over? Is she not looking out for people to date anymore? Is she getting _serious_ with Lincoln?

 

He abruptly shoves the entire tangle of questions out of his head, aggressively stabbing at a slice of bacon as he attempts to refocus on his sister’s recounting of a presentation her project group mate had nearly botched up for the entire group.

 

“So, in summary,” Octavia says, reaching for her coffee cup, “Melissa is an incompetent bitch, Maya is a genius and Jasper is definitely in love with her.” She snorts over the rim of her cup. “Which everyone already knew when he ended up in a communications class. Engineering majors don’t even _need_ social science credits.”

 

He allows a smile, shaking his head at the mention of his sister’s somewhat socially inept schoolmate. He’s met Octavia’s school friends several times over the last four years, even hung out a bunch of times over the last two. He definitely approves of Monty and Harper. Jasper is entertaining enough, but he genuinely puzzles over how the boy has managed to survive as long as he has in life.

 

“So,” Octavia starts conversationally, setting down her cup. “What do you think of Lincoln?”

 

His knife screeches against the plate. “Huh?”

 

“Clarke’s friend, Lincoln? I know you haven’t met him or anything,” his sister says, with a casual wave of her fork. “But you’ve heard, like, stuff about him. Right?”

 

His fist closes so hard around his fork that his short fingernails start to make grooves on his palm. “He sounds alright, I guess.”

 

“Just alright?” Octavia prods, raising a brow. “Did Clarke mention he’s gonna be featured in that exhibit next—”

 

He drops his fork and knife with loud clangs, pushing back from the table with a huff. “Jesus, O. Do we really have to talk about that guy?”

 

Octavia’s face falls slightly, but she continues to stare at him with wide eyes. “What exactly is your problem with him?” she asks, her tone sharper than usual.

 

He inhales tightly, one hand reaching up to push impatiently at the dark curls across his forehead before tugging at his collar sharply. Fuck, he’s hot. Has the booth been this _stuffy_ the whole time?

 

“Nothing.” He swallows a little, forcing his voice to maintain some semblance of neutrality. “Nothing. I just… don’t want to talk about him. Okay?” He doesn’t meet his sister’s piercing green eyes as he picks up his fork and knife to (hopefully) calmly resume work on his eggs.

 

Octavia is silent across him for a few seconds. He can feel her gaze heavy on him even as he stares forcefully at his plate, silently begging for her to somehow totally overlook the fact that hearing the _L-word_ basically has him acting like a five-year-old who hasn’t yet learned to play nice with the other kids. Then, _thankfully_ , he hears a quiet “okay”.

 

Shit. No. Wait. He’s done it now. His sister is probably gonna go running to Clarke and tell her how he got all weird and totally flipped out at the fucking _mention_ of Lincoln’s name.

 

Goddammit.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Two days later, his apartment door bangs open while he’s in the middle of putting his grocery shopping away. He groans under his breath, right before Clarke strides into his kitchen, blonde waves escaping the messy bun atop her head.

 

“How can you hate Lincoln?” she demands with no preamble, hands planted on her hips. “You haven’t even _met_ him!”

 

He sighs, reaching into the last brown paper bag for the yoghurt and ice cream he really should have remembered to put away first. “I don’t hate him, Clarke.”

 

“Your sister seems to think otherwise,” she retorts in her don’t-bullshit-me tone. “What the hell, Bellamy?! After _everything_ I’ve told you! What about him could you _possibly_ hate?!”

 

He just manages to refrain from slamming his freezer door shut and turns to face her, one hand coming up to rest on his hip as the other rakes through his probably already messy hair. He can’t really remember if he’s looked in a mirror today.

 

“Look, I just can’t keep listening to you going on about him anymore, okay? Oh, he’s _smart_ , he’s _funny_ , he’s _awesome_ — Jesus, Clarke! Next you’re gonna walk in here and tell me how fucking _great_ he is in bed, and _I can’t fucking hear you tell me that, okay?!_ ”

 

He catches his breath, reeling back slightly. Not that he’d planned the outburst or anything, but he definitely had _not_ meant to say that last part.

 

Clarke is staring at him, mouth slightly open as she just _stands_ there, looking at him like he’s an idiot. Fuck. Well. He probably is.

 

“Uh,” she starts, then stops, her mouth snapping shut as she continues to _stare_ at him for a couple seconds more. “Um, Lincoln and I aren’t… dating.”

 

His gaze snaps to hers in a heartbeat. “Huh?”

 

“We’re—” Why the _fuck_ is she pressing her lips together like she’s trying not to smile? “—we’re not dating.”

 

Now it’s his jaw’s turn to fall open. “You’ve been dating for _weeks_!”

 

She shakes her head, now clearly smiling despite the way her brows are still knit together. “Bellamy. We’re _friends_.”

 

Now he’s the one who’s staring. “What?”

 

“We met that first night, had a really good time and decided we were just gonna be _friends_. We’ve been hanging out, _as friends_.”

 

He really, _really_ wants to say “what” again, but he probably already looks stupid enough just standing there with his mouth hanging open.

 

She blinks, shifting to cross her arms over her front. “Well?” she asks expectantly.

 

He blinks too, suddenly unsure of what to do with himself. Fuck, what does he normally do with his _arms_? “Well… what?” he finally manages to get out.

 

She rolls her eyes, uncrosses her arms and takes three strides to bring herself directly in front of him. She grabs his head with both of her small hands, pushes herself up on her toes and pulls him down to press her lips firmly to his.

 

He stumbles half a step forward, hands immediately finding the curve of her waist to hold himself upright before tightening and pulling her sharply into himself once he’s found his balance. Their lips stay glued together for a few glorious seconds, sliding and slipping and pushing and pulling at each other before he tears himself away.

 

“You’re _sure_ you’re not dating Lincoln?” he pants slightly, palm curving round to her back to keep her pressed against him, chest to heaving chest. To be honest, he’s out of breath more from the shock and disbelief than the actual kissing — fuck, he’s _actually kissing Clarke Griffin_.

 

She rolls her eyes again, but she’s smiling. “I’m sure I’m not dating Lincoln.”

 

He can’t help the grin that splits his face in two, but he doesn’t let it last more than a second before his lips are on hers again, moving more insistently and urgently. Much to his displeasure, their second kiss is significantly shorter than their first, and she pulls away first, one hand braced gently on his chest even as the other curls into the hair above the nape of his neck.

 

“Octavia is, though.”

 

He freezes.

 

“ _What?!_ ”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

He’s still not sure if he likes Lincoln. Especially not when the guy’s got his arm around his little sister’s waist like that. Even if she doesn’t seem to be complaining.

 

“You promised,” Clarke sing-songs into his ear, one arm curling around his as she presses into his side, watching him watch his sister and her boyfriend waiting for their drinks at the bar. “You promised to be cool meeting Lincoln, remember?”

 

He exhales long and slow before dropping his shoulders. “I did.” He turns his attention to the welcome sight of familiar blue eyes, and can’t help the smile that pulls at his lips. “I am.”

 

She grins impishly, cocking her head. “So? He’s great, isn’t he?”

 

His smile widens, as he reaches out to pull her close, pressing his lips to her temple. Warmth blossoms somewhere deep in his chest as he feels Clarke lean into him. “Depends.”

 

She raises a brow at him when he pulls back, the corner of her mouth curved upward in amusement. “On?”

 

“On whether he’s wearing Victoria’s Secret or Calvin Klein.”

**Author's Note:**

> actual alternate titles i actually considered: 
> 
> "love me tinder, love me sweet"  
> "The Tinder Truth"  
> "Never Been Swiped"  
> "The Swipe Is Right"  
> "swipe left, swipe right"  
> "it’s going down, i’m yelling Tinder"
> 
>  
> 
> and, my personal favourite:
> 
> "SHIVER ME TINDERS"


End file.
